By William Francis Barnard

We cannot rise too high for this;
We cannot fall too low.
Or praised as gods, or in the dust,
It follows where we go.
It is not gained through noble deeds;
It shrinks not from life’s hurts.
Too humble ’tis for pride to taint,
Too great to seek deserts.
Its sacred solace all accept
Nor ponder on the cause;
It is of things that ask no rule,
That stand above the laws.
Of things upon no judgment built;
No weighing of the mind—
The hunger of the human heart
To treasure still its kind.
Amidst the loathing and the scorn
Some hands will faithful be;
If honors thicken such will yet
Give love’s simplicity.
Our morning sun, it shines when strength
Keeps failure from us far;
And when we sink, and strive no more,
It glows, our evening star.